Karl Vogel: A game that almost didn't end
The late George Carlin delivered one of the great stand-up comedy sets when he did a compare and contrast between football and baseball.
“Football is played in a stadium. … Baseball is played in a park.”
The gist of it was that football is so cold, physical, violent and, most of all, definite. There is an end always in sight (unless you were one of the unlucky ones watching that 87-overtime Arkansas-Mississippi game back before Eli Manning held his breath on draft day and got the Chargers to trade his rights to the Giants).
Carlin noted, however, that part of the beauty of baseball is that it is truly timeless. It could go on forever, theoretically.
On Tuesday night, as the All-Star Game droned on, I was certain it would never end.
Extra inning after extra inning, I was certain God would soon be leaving his heavenly dugout and signaling for a left-hander to come in from the pen to take my place in the news room.
My father is a funeral director and mortician, and I’ve never had the need to call him for any personal business. But Tuesday night, I was looking about as haggard as Bud Selig. My co-workers were openly talking about putting 911 on speed dial, just in case.
As much as I love baseball, it was difficult to root for either team as that game progressed. Working to put out the newspaper and with a hard-and-fast deadline breathing down my neck (or was that my editor?), I found myself cheering every Dan Uggla error (all three of them) and cursing every Aaron Cook-induced groundout.
Nate McLouth almost put me six feet under. Sure, he may have earned some platitudes by throwing out Dioner Navarro at the plate in the 11th inning to keep the National League alive, but he about killed me. Literally.
“AAAAAAARGH. Doesn’t he know that time doesn’t stand still?”That was a rhetorical question. But it was most likely one McLouth might be tempted to answer since he plays for the Pittsburgh Pirates, who are seemingly stuck in the same season over and over again since Barry Bonds (before he allegedly discovered better living through chemistry) failed to throw out Atlanta’s Sid Bream at the plate in the final game of the 1992 NLCS.
Still, the in-office discussion then started to focus on which players hadn’t yet played in the game. Did either league have pitchers? Would the Giants’ hospitalized Tim Lincecum be called on to save the day and be wheeled in from the NL bullpen on the same wheelchair that Paul Pierce used in the NBA Finals? Or perhaps he’d just be wearing Willis Reed’s Knicks warmups and strip them off on the Yankee Stadium mound to reveal his Superman Underoos. (It must have been late, because that was funny. I guess you had to be here.)
Once they started playing the 14th inning, it became clear that both teams might run out of pitchers and position players. With Yogi Berra having graced the field with his presence, it would be appropriate to have someone remark, “It’s like deja vu all over again,” or at least hypnotize Selig into believing that it was 2002 again and that he was at home in Milwaukee.
At least that way he’d end this game by declaring it a tie, too.
But, noooooooo, this one “counts” because it determines home-field advantage for the World Series. Is there anything more incongruous than that? Maybe Carrot Top joining the Pussycat Dolls. No, actually I could see that happening.
Thankfully, Michael Young ended things with his sacrifice fly in the 15th. Somehow, with the game ending well after midnight, we managed to catch a good chunk of the final edition with a story. Don’t ask me how; those 30 minutes are still more blurry than John Daly’s eyesight.
Even more importantly, it kept us from having to watch Red Sox outfielder J.D. Drew and Mets third baseman David Wright pitch the 16th inning of a game that was designed to showcase the best of the best doing what they supposedly do best.
Oh, well. At least we won’t have to worry about another game dragging us into the wee hours again this year, right?
“What’s that, Rob? The World Series games don’t start until 7:45 p.m.? ... And they’re on Fox, too?kvogel@journalstar.com.
“Where’s my cell phone? I have to call my dad.”
Reach Karl Vogel at 473-7432 or
“Football is played in a stadium. … Baseball is played in a park.”
The gist of it was that football is so cold, physical, violent and, most of all, definite. There is an end always in sight (unless you were one of the unlucky ones watching that 87-overtime Arkansas-Mississippi game back before Eli Manning held his breath on draft day and got the Chargers to trade his rights to the Giants).
Carlin noted, however, that part of the beauty of baseball is that it is truly timeless. It could go on forever, theoretically.
On Tuesday night, as the All-Star Game droned on, I was certain it would never end.
Extra inning after extra inning, I was certain God would soon be leaving his heavenly dugout and signaling for a left-hander to come in from the pen to take my place in the news room.
My father is a funeral director and mortician, and I’ve never had the need to call him for any personal business. But Tuesday night, I was looking about as haggard as Bud Selig. My co-workers were openly talking about putting 911 on speed dial, just in case.
As much as I love baseball, it was difficult to root for either team as that game progressed. Working to put out the newspaper and with a hard-and-fast deadline breathing down my neck (or was that my editor?), I found myself cheering every Dan Uggla error (all three of them) and cursing every Aaron Cook-induced groundout.
Nate McLouth almost put me six feet under. Sure, he may have earned some platitudes by throwing out Dioner Navarro at the plate in the 11th inning to keep the National League alive, but he about killed me. Literally.
“AAAAAAARGH. Doesn’t he know that time doesn’t stand still?”That was a rhetorical question. But it was most likely one McLouth might be tempted to answer since he plays for the Pittsburgh Pirates, who are seemingly stuck in the same season over and over again since Barry Bonds (before he allegedly discovered better living through chemistry) failed to throw out Atlanta’s Sid Bream at the plate in the final game of the 1992 NLCS.
Still, the in-office discussion then started to focus on which players hadn’t yet played in the game. Did either league have pitchers? Would the Giants’ hospitalized Tim Lincecum be called on to save the day and be wheeled in from the NL bullpen on the same wheelchair that Paul Pierce used in the NBA Finals? Or perhaps he’d just be wearing Willis Reed’s Knicks warmups and strip them off on the Yankee Stadium mound to reveal his Superman Underoos. (It must have been late, because that was funny. I guess you had to be here.)
Once they started playing the 14th inning, it became clear that both teams might run out of pitchers and position players. With Yogi Berra having graced the field with his presence, it would be appropriate to have someone remark, “It’s like deja vu all over again,” or at least hypnotize Selig into believing that it was 2002 again and that he was at home in Milwaukee.
At least that way he’d end this game by declaring it a tie, too.
But, noooooooo, this one “counts” because it determines home-field advantage for the World Series. Is there anything more incongruous than that? Maybe Carrot Top joining the Pussycat Dolls. No, actually I could see that happening.
Thankfully, Michael Young ended things with his sacrifice fly in the 15th. Somehow, with the game ending well after midnight, we managed to catch a good chunk of the final edition with a story. Don’t ask me how; those 30 minutes are still more blurry than John Daly’s eyesight.
Even more importantly, it kept us from having to watch Red Sox outfielder J.D. Drew and Mets third baseman David Wright pitch the 16th inning of a game that was designed to showcase the best of the best doing what they supposedly do best.
Oh, well. At least we won’t have to worry about another game dragging us into the wee hours again this year, right?
“What’s that, Rob? The World Series games don’t start until 7:45 p.m.? ... And they’re on Fox, too?kvogel@journalstar.com.
“Where’s my cell phone? I have to call my dad.”
Reach Karl Vogel at 473-7432 or
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